We were in the main hallway, sitting on a hard wooden bench, our bags on the floor beside us. Kaz had one leg draped over the other, the cut of his trousers making him look casually elegant, like Ronald Colman in a tux. I looked at my pants. Baggy, wrinkled. My wool socks were itchy, and my feet hurt in their standard-issue size nine cordovan service shoes. Kaz’s black shoes sparkled like he had just gotten a spit shine, and his socks didn’t look like army issue. He looked at home in this grand house, as if he owned the place. I felt like the house dick at the Copley Plaza Hotel, the kind of
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